


Of Wishes And Fishes

by shewhoguards



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: British, Fish, Friendship, Holiday, Humor, Other, Politics, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dogfish, a catfish, a wishing ring and a holiday in the North of England. What could go wrong? Written for Good Omens 2007 Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was no denying that the planned Apocalypse had been a bit of a disaster in all the wrong ways. Rivers of blood had failed to flow, the earth had not been split asunder, and while the four horseback riders had turned up as agreed, they’d been told to go away again thank-you-very-much we’ve got it under control.

In fact, there had been a distinct lack of Armageddon in any one of the spots up for the title much to everyone’s annoyance. It was all a bit of a disappointment really, and now it was over both Heaven and Hell were making angry noises at each other about whose fault it was but no-one really seemed at all sure as to what should happen next.

It was the time a smart anthropomorphic entity took a break, got away from it all, took some time to get back to her roots and relax. And War knew the perfect place to go for that.

THE NORTH-EAST?

Of course _he _was there. Sooner or later, he was everywhere. It was what Death was good at.

WHY HERE?

“Oh, you know,” War shrugged a little and smiled to herself as she strolled along the sea-front, licking at her ice-cream with a delicate red tongue. “It’s a bit of a home from home here really. They’ve always viewed civil war as more of a _hobby _than anything.”

Death looked about. On the beach, fishermen were hauling in the day’s catch, shouting to each other as the fish spilled onto the sands. At the edge of the water, in defiance of the usual English summer-time weather, two small children were valiantly paddling. Even from a distance they seemed to be turning blue which was either from the cold or from a chemical spill, but as long as nothing was actively falling off, the fun continued. No-one took much notice of the tall black-robed skeleton walking along the sea-front, but then that was also the usual state of affairs.

IT SEEMS PEACEFUL ENOUGH, he offered pensively.

War smiled brightly. She looked at the children in the water, at the grey Northern clouds with their constant threat of rain, at the fishermen hard at work. “It does rather, doesn’t it?” she agreed cheerfully.

Things when she arrived at a place usually did after all.

***

It started with a magic ring, lost millennia ago, dropped into the ocean and left to drift gently to the bottom.

In fact, this is a more common occurrence than you might think. It is the way of magic rings to grant wishes that are not entirely as people expected, and it is the way of those people when exasperated to throw the ring away as far as possible, wanting it out of their sight. The ocean is rather frequently involved.

In most cases such rings are eventually eaten by catfish - for some reason they appear to have a taste for such things. Such catfish then inevitably become magical themselves, and begin granting wishes. Indeed, there is such a long tradition of this that young catfish are now frequently taught that when they have eaten something shiny they should go seek out particularly stupid looking humans.

This particular ring however was due for a different fate. This particular ring got eaten by a dogfish.

The dogfish in question had seen the glint of metal, almost buried by seaweed by this point, and decided that it clearly must be a hiding fish of some type. (Dogfish are not particularly noted for their brightness but are noted for a rather compulsive need to bite anything that they come across.). A mouthful of metal and weed, a gulp, and only a faint metallic taste was left to show that the ring had ever existed at all.

"Now you've done it," a nearby catfish observed glumly.

"What?" The dogfish's gaze as he looked at the other fish was a discomforting one, a look that said he was full just now, but he might well have room for catfish dessert any moment now. He swallowed again reflexively, conscious of an odd taste left over in his mouth. "Odd-tasting fish, that."

“It wasn’t a fish, you _idiot_.” It wasn’t easy for a fish to scowl, but the catfish looked distinctly annoyed with it’s whiskers twitching through the water. “It was a ring. Fish don’t shine like that.”

“Thought it was a goldfish.” The dogfish burped gently and looked around for the next thing to bite. The Catfish was starting to look like a better and better option. “Oh well, gone now I guess.”

“It’s not as _simple _as that.” The catfish swam in agitated circles around him. “It was a wishing ring, and _I _was meant to eat it, not you. You’ve not got a wishproof stomach – you’ve never even been trained!”

“Wishing ring?” Slightly disbelieving, and suspecting that the catfish was merely resenting the loss of its own shiny dinner, the dogfish glanced around. “You mean like if I wished we were somewhere else?”

Reality flickered. The world stopped then started again differently. The two fish looked around at the cold grey waters of the North Sea.

The catfish groaned, a quiet sound of utter disgust. _“Amateurs!”_

The dogfish was shivering, not at all sure it liked the change from its usual tropical waters. “You know, it's bloody cold,” he complained. “I wish it would warm up a bit.”

As the sea seethed and bubbled in its hurry to react, War watched from the shore, her smile widening.

She turned to Death, her eyes bright. “You’d better go get ready, old friend,” she murmured. “You’re going to be busy very soon.”

***

“I still don’t understand why we had to come.”

“I told you. After the Apocalypse, we needed a holiday,” Aziraphale said patiently. “Besides, there’s nothing to stop us doing the tempting and saving here as much as anywhere else.”

“You only got as far as mentioning the holiday. You never mentioned where to,” Crowley complained. “I thought maybe Barbados or something – people practically falling out of _trees _begging to be tempted there. And you could save as many people as you wanted, and there’d be actual _sunshine_. Instead, what do I get? Redcar of all places. Come to the North-East and admire our many chemical and nuclear factories. Not exactly what most people would describe as a centre of tourism, is it?”

“It’s _cultural_,” Aziraphale said firmly. “A historic education. The smugglers of Saltburn! The Hartlepool Quay!”

“The Middlesbrough vandals,” Crowley said glumly. “If they even think of _touching _my car they’ll be in for a nasty shock.” He turned to look at Aziraphale, peering at the angel suspiciously. “This hasn’t got anything to do with that little bookshop I saw a few streets away from our bed-and-breakfast, is it?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, I thought maybe we could pop in to take a look, just as we’re here,” he admitted. “They are rumoured to have certain rather fascinating books in their early editions.”

“I knew it,” Crowley muttered sourly. “Halfway across the country to look at a bloody bookshop. One day, angel, I really need to educate you in the ways on eBay and Amazon, and life will be so much easier…”

“You shouldn’t order books across the internet,” Aziraphale said primly. “It’s too easy. It soils them. Anything worth having is worth working for.”

Crowley gave him a disbelieving look. “So if I told you of a place where you could get a first edition of Alice in Wonderland just like that…”

“I would say no,” Aziraphale said firmly, and hesitated as Crowley continued to stare at him. Angelic truthfulness won out after only a few moments. He squirmed. “Besides, I ordered one book from there and it really _stunk _of cigarette smoke…”

Crowley laughed, satisfied. “Aha, now we get to the truth of the matter.”

“And I checked, and it wasn’t as though they didn’t have a high feedback rating...” Aziraphale went on fretfully.

Crowley nodded cheerfully. He’d always considered the feedback system to be one of his better pieces of work. Bearing false witness, wrath, there was potential for all sorts of sin all wrapped up neatly in one little computer system. And that wasn’t even going _into _all the coveting and envy of other people’s winning bids that went on. If he could work some adult pay per view in there somewhere he’d have most of the deadly sins wrapped up in a neat self perpetuating system.

“I complained, and the seller said I hadn’t read the description properly!” Aziraphale was still complaining. “He said he’d never _said _it was a smoke-free home and-“ he broke off abruptly, glancing at the sea. “I say, what’s that?”

Crowley followed his gaze, peering over the top of his sun glasses to look at the water. It did indeed seem to be bubbling rather ominously. “Perhaps it’s natural for the North,” he suggested doubtfully. “I tell you, with all the nuclear factories around here, the whole area’s probably radioactive. We’ll be lucky if we don’t come out with three heads.”

“I don’t think we can be affected by radiation,” Aziraphale objected, but he said it absent-mindedly, attention on the dead fish that were already beginning to gather on the surface of the water. “I’m sure it wasn’t doing that five minutes ago.”

“Chemical leak then. There’ll be fish with two heads crawling out of there next,” Crowley predicted, before his gaze fell on two figures standing together at the edge of the beach. “Oh.” His voice went flat suddenly, the mischief dying from his tone as he nudged Aziraphale to look.

Aziraphale looked where he was told, features quickly settling into a frown. “Oh,” he echoed. “Your people, maybe?”

Crowley shook his head. “Our lot are still arguing over the fallout from the last one. Yours?”

“Still bickering over whose fault it was,” Aziraphale agreed. “But if _those _two are together…”

“Maybe we should check out what’s going on…” Crowley finished glumly. He sighed, already beginning the trudge down onto the sand. “Next year, Aziraphale,_ I’m _picking where we go on holiday.”

***

"That's better." The dogfish relaxed as the waters heated to lukewarm. "Much more homely."

_"Homely?"_ Fish voices weren't made in a way that allowed them to shriek, but the catfish's tone suggested that if he could have, he would have. He swam in angry circles, whiskers trembling with outrage. "If you'd wanted homely you should have stayed at home rather than wishing us here in the first place! I prefer freshwater, but you don't see my species whining about it and changing the entire ocean to suit us. No, we _cope!"_

"Or...you could just stay in freshwater pools," the dogfish suggested mildly. "Might be easier in the long run."

"And then how would we prevent idiots like you from eating magic rings and bending the world to your whims?" the catfish demanded. "You'll turn the entire world into ocean next!"

The dogfish seemed to seriously consider the idea for a moment. "I can't see much use in that idea," he decided. "It's not as though I could swim that far."

"Well, that's one relief," the catfish said acidly. "Now, what you have to do is wish..."

"Wish what I really want to come true," the dogfish interrupted. "Yes, I think I've got the hang of it now. I'm not _stupid_, you know." He looked around at the North Sea, most of the native sealife still rushing about in shock at the changing of their water temperature. "I think what I wish most is for some of these folk to just go away." he decided. "I can't be having with all this lot competing for my food. I wish there were a few less of them."

"No!" The catfish actually swam right at him, desperate to stop that wish being spoken, but too late, far too late. The fish around them vanished, leaving a vast expanse of only empty water and weed.

The dogfish swam out of his way with one deft flick of his tail, and turned to look at him, mildly bemused. "It's okay, I haven't wished _you _away," he reassured, unsure quite what had upset his companion.

The catfish stared at him, aghast. "What difference does that make, you idiot? You're a carnivore that just wished away all other fish. What were you planning to _eat_?"

"Oh, well." Clearly the dogfish hadn't considered that until now. He thought for a moment. "I suppose, when I get hungry I'll just have to wish some of them back," he decided. "Nice tender little ones, not those big ones who fight back all the time."

"There won't _be _any more wishes!" Furious and frustrated, the catfish turned and thumped his head against a large rock, as though trying to relieve some of his anger. "That was the third wish - the fixer wish! If you've mucked things up you're meant to either wish everything back the way it was, or if you're feeling too smart for your own good, you wish for three more wishes. No-one ever uses it to just wish for a normal wish!"

"I only get three? You never told me I only get three!" the dogfish protested. "That's totally unfair. You can't just go not telling me and expect me to _know_!"

"I'm very sorry for not managing to fit months of dedicated training into ten minutes in which you mostly ignored me," the catfish retorted crisply. "Three wishes, okay? _Everyone _knows you get three wishes. Wish one is meant to be the one you use to be allowed to speak human, wish two is your safety wish in case the human you pick is particularly stupid and decides they prefer a fish dinner to having three wishes and wish three is your reward wish for participating in the whole affair. You're not meant to just go around using them all on changing the world. We leave that sort of stupidity to the _humans_!"

"Well, it's hardly my fault if I didn't know," the dogfish complained again. "What do we do now then?"

"Who knows?" the catfish said gloomily. "You didn't even wish yourself able to speak human, so we can't even try asking _them _to wish things back. We could try waiting until a bigger fish eats you and hope they have more sense - oops, no, we can't, you wished all the other fish away."

"Well, we can't use _that _plan then." the dogfish said, rather relieved by that. "Any other ideas?"

The catfish considered it. "Yes," he said after a long moment. "Three in fact."

"Oh, good." The dogfish relaxed a little. "Out with it then. What are they?"

"You could commit suicide and I could pick the ring out of what was left of your body."

The dogfish stared at him for a moment. "Yes," he said slowly. "Well, that wasn't _entirely _what I had in mind. What were your other ideas?"

"I could wait until you inevitably starved to death having wished all other fish away, and _then _pick the ring out of what was left of your body." the catfish said brightly. He smiled at the dogfish, a rather sharp, unpleasant smile. "_Some _of us can get by just fine on waterweed."

"I'm seeing a theme here," the dogfish noted. "And it might help your planning if I told you I had no objection at all to eating catfish if the necessity arises." He returned the catfish's smile, showing sharp, white teeth for a moment. Dogfish, after all, belonged to the shark family, and sharks are _good _at smiling. "What was idea three please, and I hope it's a little less... fatal than the other two."

The catfish sighed. "We wait until someone _else _finds a ring and wishes things back to normal." he said. "Or we try to find another ourselves."

"Well, that sounds a _little _more hopeful," the dogfish agreed. "Turn up often, these rings, do they?"

"About once every hundred years or so, and almost never in the North Sea." the catfish replied. "You'll notice the scarcity of catfish in these parts - even _before _you did your wishing thing."

It took a moment for the dogfish to consider the implications of this, and to force a smile which by now seemed slightly strained. "Yes well," he said heavily. "I suppose we had better start looking then."

***

Even as Aziraphale and Crowley hurried towards them, the figures of Famine and Pollution appeared on the beach, walking briskly towards their old companions.

Both of them seemed somewhat surprised to be there.

"You know, I could swear I hadn't been concentrating on global warming recently," Pollution commented. "At least, not to _this _extent. The Apocalypse took up too much of my time for that." He stopped to stare at the sea in a puzzled way , a small puddle of oil growing around his feet as he did so.

Such was the state of Redcar beach that this made very little noticeable difference.

"I have to admit, I haven't been focusing on fish lately," Famine agreed. "Drought, yes, crop failure, yes but fish?" He frowned a little, and then focused on the half-eaten ice-cream still in War's hand. "Oh, is there an ice-cream van around here? I'm hungry."

"Are we going for another go at the Apocalypse?" Pollution demanded. "Because if so, my parcel hasn't arrived. That's the Postal Service for you, I suppose. Nothing gets where it's supposed to be nowadays."

Death shrugged, a graceful movement under the black robe. ASK HER, he suggested, indicating War.

She turned to face them, her smile radiant. "Hello boys," she greeted them in her automatically provocative voice. "I thought you might appreciate a holiday after all of that unpleasantness."

The three others looked at each other - or at least, Pollution and Famine did. It could sometimes be hard to tell whether Death was looking at you or not - a side-effect of the empty eye-sockets. "What did you have in mind?" Famine asked cautiously.

"Oh, you know, we could make it just like old times again. Don't you remember what they used to say - if you want a good civil war, come to the North of England?" War asked, her eyes shining as she looked out to sea. "Don't you remember the Harrying of the North - well, _you _don't obviously, Pollution, it's before your time - but you other two? The piles of burning cattle, the people starving in the streets, all of us working together just how it should be? It's too long since we've worked as a team like that."

Famine stared at her for a moment. "You mean, like a... team-building exercise?" he asked eventually. "Like humans have to build morale?"

War smiled at him. "Just exactly like that," she agreed. "Don't you think we need it after that last affair?"

Pollution had been quiet for a long time, seeming to be trying to think something through. "But..." he said eventually. "Dead fish, global warming - those are _our _jobs. And Death... well, he can find a place almost anywhere. I don't understand, where's _your _place in all this?"

"Oh, _dear_," War's tone was almost a purr, just ever-so-slightly patronising as she looked at Famine - an old hand having to explain things to the newest team member. "Don't you worry about _that_. I _make _my own place. That's what I'm good at."

"War takes care of herself." Famine was quick to back that up before his younger colleague could question it any further. "Best that we just get on with our own jobs, and let her get on with hers. The way humans are, it's not often she needs much a case of light blue touchpaper and stand well back"

"Especially not _here_," War agreed, looking up at the fourth, currently silent member of their party. "What about you? Will you stay around for the fun?"

Again, the black robe rose and fell as the tall skeleton gave an expressive shrug. I WILL BE HERE, he agreed without sign or either approval or disapproval. I AM ALWAYS HERE.

***

"Well." Angel and demon had halted in their approach as two became four. Wanting to help with the Apocalypse take two was all well and good, but even Aziraphale had had to admit that when so outnumbered the best way to deal with things might not be head on.

Besides, Crowley wasn't all that sure he _did _actually want to help.

"Well," he said again, as the four anthromorphic personifications wandered away from them down the beach, a trail of oil droplets following in Pollution's wake. "You know," he added hopefully. "If we set off driving now, I could have us halfway back before we hit rush-hour."

Aziraphale fixed him with a hard stare, "Crowley..." he began, warningly.

"What?" the demon protested. "I'm just saying, we don't need to get involved in this. I _especially _don't need to get involved in this. Agent of Hell, remember? I'm meant to be all in favour of wars and suchlike on principle."

"We didn't save the world just so they can destroy it!" Aziraphale protested.

Crowley scowled. "Shut up, will you? You're going to ruin my reputation if you start saying things like that in public. And they're not going to destroy the world. Northern England, much as it might like to believe otherwise, is not "the world". The parts of the world that have even _noticed _it probably wish they hadn't."

"But once they start here, it'll spread. Don't you _remember _what people here are like? Once they get annoyed they invade the rest of the country to make sure no-one feels like they're missing anything. Remember the War of the Roses? And that mess with Guy Fawkes - he was born not so far from here, don't forget."

Crowley pondered for a minute. "You know, I think I got an award for that one," he commented, remembering. Hell approved of any event which stirred people up enough to keep them celebrating it for centuries, a faint patina of sin brushing over each soul every time it allowed itself to indulge in righteous satisfaction at the treatment of the traitors and for the prices regularly charged for fireworks.

"So did I," Aziraphale admitted reluctantly. Heaven just tended to approve of religious war on principle, without bothering to ask too many questions about who got to have their genitalia burned in front of them and for what reasons. Usually by that point the reasons were just excuses anyway. "But it wasn't very nice, was it?"

"I'm a demon, Aziraphale. We don't _do _nice." Crowley reminded him. "We're generally in favour of war, torture, murder and at the risk of sounding like a Sky news reporter, atrocities against humanity. The more they get on with it without my help the more days I get to lie in bed and do nothing. Or lie in bed and do something. Both are good. Occasionally _very _good."

Aziraphale gave him a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and he sighed a little. That was the problem with Aziraphale, he believed everyone was a good person deep down. Even those who were demons.

"You can't expect me to go around encouraging people to be good," he protested miserably. "That's hardly my job."

Aziraphale seemed to think about it, trying to gather his arguments. "Look, just think about the consequences of it. If a war starts in England, do you really expect _him _to stay out of it, if it spreads? And we've just _finished _dealing with that."

"He promised he wouldn't interfere!"

"He's a _child_," Aziraphale said flatly. "And he may have promised, but if it gets nasty, can you see him not _wanting _to interfere one way or another? He's been brought up human, and humans can be tempted to do things they never intended to. You of all people should know that. They do say that the way to Hell is paved with good intentions."

It was a good point, and Crowley hesitated as he was sidelined by a memory of ice skating over frozen insurance salemen on the road to hell. As a proverb the reality lacked a certain something.. "Maybe it won't end in war," he said without much conviction. "Didn't you give me that big talk about free choice before? The place might have mellowed a bit over the years. Just because she's here, they don't _have _to start a war. They have a choice. What was the last really big fuss these northerners got involved in, after all?"

"Being forced to weigh out food in metric measurements rather than imperial," Aziraphale could answer that without hesitation. "People were very upset apparently, and prepared to start full-scale protests against Europe for it."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, vaguely remembering a few comments made to greengrocers here and there which might, in a certain light, have been a tad inflammatory. "Well, maybe they felt very strongly about it."

"Yes. They feel strongly about a lot of things apparently. The _Worst Town In Britain _contests nearly bring the regions to rioting in the streets every year. I've been here a couple of times to calm things down." Aziraphale looked at him sternly. "This is not a region where it would be _hard _to start a civil war, Crowley. They look on civil rebellion as something interesting to do on evenings and weekends. The only thing that has _stopped _this place from declaring nuclear war or something on the rest of the world is that it's too poor to afford the weapons."

"Yes, yes, I remember how it used to be. Get bored on Friday, rebel against the South on Saturday, get oppressed on Sunday in time to start work again on Monday," Crowley admitted. "I just... what do you expect _me _to do about it? It's not like they've done anything yet, except warm the sea up a bit. That might even be an improvement. Attract some tourism or something with exotic sealife."

"It'll kill things. Fish. They'll die out."

"So?" Crowley shrugged. "Things have been dying out for _centuries _and we've never bothered about it before. Never went out to try and save that awful looking fish with the legs, did we?"

"Just... just let's stick around for a few days," Aziraphale insisted desperately. "Something's going to happen. I've got a _feeling_."

"You want to haunt that bookshop more like, and see if any more first editions magically appear from the backroom," Crowley accused. "Fine, we'll stay. But only for the weekend. I hate the North, and it's not as if it's even got any decent winebars where you can drown out the fact that you're here."

"I thought you'd _like _it here," Aziraphale commented, a little surprised. "There's certainly enough corruption and sin available for you."

"Yeah, well, that's _why _isn't it? I set the whole thing going, generating sin all on its own so I never have to come back." Crowley shuddered, glancing around at the now empty beach. "Frankly I prefer to home-work where certain locations are involved."

It was a depressing a thought, a little piece of self-generating Hell, eking out misery year after year without any demons even required to keep the whole process going. Still, Aziraphale managed to summon a smile up from somewhere. "I'm afraid I shall have to see what I can do to thwart that, my dear," he warned.

"You would," Crowley said, but without real heat. It wasn't as though any blessings given to this place would stick for more than five minutes. "Come on. If we're going to stay here for the weekend we'd better find a hotel or something."

***

In the end, they found a bed and breakfast. The owner, a lady who identified herself as one Daphne Turner, opened her mouth to tell them that there were no rooms left for the night when she looked down again and discovered that she _had_. It was very odd, for she was _sure _the bed and breakfast only had four bedrooms, and they seemed to have had had quite an influx of visitors today, but there was in the fifth room noted in her book, and there was the key. Very strange.

It could almost be described as miraculous in fact.

The dark-haired man leaned on her counter and smirked at her. "Room for two, please. Name of Crowley."

He had sunglasses on, Daphne realised when she finally stopped staring at her screen. She glanced at the window to check the weather, and felt vaguely reassured to see that it was drizzling rain. At least _some _things in the world were still normal then.

"Room for two," Crowley repeated, more impatiently this time.

"Right, right, sorry." Daphne did her best to revive her flagging customer service skills, pasting on her usual fake smile. "We do have just room left as a matter of fact, but I'm uh... not sure..." she glanced from one man to another, blushing a little, "...uh, I'm not sure if it's double or twin."

"Twin," the blonde man said hastily, blushing an even deeper red than she was. "It will be twin. And we'll take it, thank you."

Crowley turned to look at him, smirk quickly turning into a half-laugh. "Are you _sure_, angel?" he drawled, and Daphne looked hastily back at her computer, because the look he was giving the blonde man was... well, it wasn't something that someone else should be watching really.

Besides, what did she care if they wanted to get a twin room and push the beds together if it made them feel happier about things? It was hardly the first couple she'd had who'd wanted to do things that way.

"Will you be wanting breakfast?" she enquired, keeping her eyes firmly on the screen now. "Only I'm afraid it might be a little limited. The supermarket won't be getting its delivery until Monday, and we seem to be out of eggs. And bacon. And cereal. And... well, quite a lot of things in fact."

She still wasn't quite sure exactly how that had happened, either. They usually kept more than enough in, especially for the off-season, yet when she'd gone to the kitchen to check after the last set of guests had arrived, the cupboards had been almost bare with nothing in the fridge except one sad lump of mouldy cheese that was developing an impressive civilization of fungus. She'd called the supermarket to see if she could arrange a delivery, but apparently they had nothing in either. The man on the phone had sounded a bit hysterical about it.

And then when she'd gone to check the guests and make sure they had found their rooms all right, there had been the most _awful _smell coming from one of the rooms. It had to be a blocked drain or something. She had apologised of course, and promised to call the emergency plumber out at once, but the man had smiled quite happily and said that it was fine as it was. As though he prefered it that way.

It really had been a very odd day.

"Without breakfast will be fine," the blonde man said calmly.

"Would you know where the closest wine-bar is?" the other one asked hopefully, and Daphne had to think for a moment.

"Wine... well, we don't really _do _wine-bars," she admitted with a little laugh. "But there's a Working Man's Club around the corner."

"Working Man's Club. Right." He looked unaccountably depressed by this news.

"Would you like me to show you to your room now?" Daphne asked brightly. "It's just up the stairs. At least, I _think _it is." She was not altogether sure _how _she knew that, but the knowledge seemed to have arrived in her brain.

They followed her, the blonde man looking quite cheerful about it, the dark one looking strangely glum and mumbling something about turning Newcastle Brown Ale into wine. Daphne glanced at the room for just long enough to ascertain it did indeed have two beds - both neatly made up with green tartan quilts and pillowcases - before they squeezed past her inside.

Looking at them she realised for the first time that neither of them carried any luggage, and wondered how they were intending to go a whole weekend without a change of clothes. Some of these Southern types could be so strange at times.

"There's an Asda down the road, if you want anything," she volunteered. "Shirts, or trousers, or... uh. They have a pharmacy too."

The blonde man glanced at her, looking a little blank. "That's good to know," he said politely. "Although I don't think either of will be getting ill. But thank you."

It drew another smirk out of the darker man. "I think she meant for things other than medicine, Aziraphale," he said, and Daphne found herself blushing again at his expression. "We'll go for a walk later, and I'll educate you, shall I? You'll be very impressed. Some of these things even come in _flavours_."

"Flavours?" The blonde man, Daphne decided, had to be a little new to all this. He looked confused still, not quite understanding. "I don't see..."

"She means for _safety_, Aziraphale," the other said, patiently.

Even then it took another moment before the man's face flooded with brilliant colour. "Oh, I don't think - I mean - we're not..."

The dark-haired man smiled wickedly, and leaned forward to take the door-handle, shutting it firmly in Daphne's face.

***

That was on Friday.

By Saturday morning, the news crews had arrived.

"This is Nina Nannar reporting live from the small town of Redcar where a strange phenomenon is occurring. Not only are the seas here heating up, but the fish actually appear to have disappeared from the North Sea. With me I have local fisherman, Alfred Barker. Mr Barker, you say you've worked here all your life?"

Her interview victim, a large white-haired man, glowered suspiciously into the camera. "Aye."

"And can you tell our viewers, have you ever seen anything like this before?"

Again he glanced at the camera warily, then down at his feet, camera-shy. "No."

"You've never seen fish disappear like this?" the reporter pressed.

"No."

"Or the water warm up like this? Why, it's practically luke-warm in there, isn't it?"

It was. On the shore, children were racing around happily, experiencing for the first time what it was like to paddle without the worry of hypothermia.

"Aye," the fisherman agreed.

The reporter was clearly struggling now, desperate to pull answers from her reluctant subject. "And do you have any idea what might be the cause of this, Mr Barker?"

"Aye."

She brightened. "You _do_?"

"It's the bloody government, isn't it?" For the first time, the man seemed to forget his nervousness of the camera. "They go around agreeing with Europe what _we're_ allowed to fish, but no one's stopping the damn foreigners from coming over in _their _ships and taking all the fish." He glowered at the reporter, and spat onto the sand. "Bloody foreigners," he repeated.

"I see." Nina Nannar jerked her head slightly at the cameraman, gesturing for him to zoom in. "And you think this is to blame for the global warming too?"

"What, overfishing?" The man stared at her for a minute. "Of course I don't. Just because I'm Northern doesn't mean I'm stupid, you know."

"Oh," Nina tried not to look disappointed. An interview with a crazy person usually did a great deal for the ratings. "I do apologise."

"Of course the sea's warm. What the hell do people _expect _if they dump the entire country's chemical and nuclear factories up here? They've buggered it all up, haven't they? It's not surprising."

"They?"

"The government. Bloody Southerners who wouldn't dream of dumping this stuff in _their _back yard, but hey, let the North have it. They're desperate for jobs. They won't complain about it." He scowled at her, seeming to lump her in with the 'bloody Southerners' who were responsible for it all.

"But I thought the North _did _need the jobs?" This conversation was not running the way she had expected, but Nina allowed it to continue anyway. If nothing else it should bring up some interesting questions next Prime Minister's Questiontime.

"Of course we do. Got nothing else, have we? Especially now the bastards have taken our damn fish." He glanced angrily over to the sea. "It's not like we're not capable of more. We have intelligent kids too! We have innovation! _We invented the friction match!_"

There was a pause before Nina said quite carefully, "Some people might consider that to have been rather a long time ago."

"Damn right it was." The old fisherman glared at her. "And do you see those poncey bastards in London using anything better, even today? Do they have some fancy match that makes coffee when you strike it or something? No, they don't. Because when the North invents something, it _stays _invented."

"I'll be sure that gets noted..."

"Of course, it's not like the North ever saw any profits from the thing," Mr Barker by now was on a roll, fifty years of hereditary resentment suddenly finding a voice, and not about to be diverted by something so small as a journalist with other questions to ask. "London had to go and steal _that _too, didn't they?" He spat again, angrily. "The North does things, the South takes the credit for'em. Bastards."

Nina hesitated, aware that the conversation was by now not just off-track but running without lines completely. She had only been allocated a ten minute interview slot, and perhaps it was better to wrap it up now. Heaven only knew what the man would drag up next. "Thank you, Mr Barker, and I'm sure our viewers will be very interested in all you've had to say today. This is Nina Nannar..."

"You tell 'em we know who's responsible for it all," the man interrupted again. "You tell'em that. Not that it'll do any bloody good - they never did anything about it before - but at least they ought to _know_!"

"I'm sure they do now, Mr Barker," Nina reassured. Feeling her practiced smile starting to slip, she looked into the camera and spoke quickly, before he could interrupt again. "This is Nina Nannar, ITN News. Good night."

And it was done.

No-one noticed, or thought much of, the beautiful red-haired woman who was helping out the camera-men, making sure they got all the best shots. Miss Crimson was so skilful with the equipment - surely she _had _to work for them, one way or another.

***

"Storm in a tea-cup," Crowley insisted later, watching the news. "So people are a bit pissed off. They'll get over it sooner or later. It's not as though they're actually going to _do _anything."

"I'm not so sure," Aziraphale sat on the bed, munching thoughtfully on a cream-cake. Redcar at least didn't seem to be short of bakers, and it _did _help him think. "This is a grudge they've held for centuries. If they get worked up too much..."

"They'll do what? Blockade the teabag factories so a nationwide emergency tea shortage is called? Elect another monkey into government, just to make a point? Not like anyone noticed the last time they tried _that_," Crowley said with a snort. "This is the twenty first century, Aziraphale, and it's _England_. People don't just buckle their swords on and leap onto horses to go off and fight any more. They're _civilized_. They're _proud _of being civilized. The worst they do is make rude remarks about each other - and they've done that already."

Aziraphale shook his head, looking doubtful. "Not if _she's_ involved. I think we should stay a few more days, just to be safe."

Crowley shuddered. "A few more days _here_? It almost reminds me of a visit home," he complained. "And there's nothing to do."

Aziraphale smiled sweetly, a look of blissful contentment at having set the world to rights - or at least parts of it. "On the contrary, dear. I've been finding _plenty _to do."

As the local news turned to a story about a charity for disabled children which had suddenly found itself inundated with gifts of toys, the smile turned into a beam, and he cheerfully ignored Crowley's sulky expression. In a region like the North, there was simply so _much _work that could be done, with just little tweaks here and there to encourage people.

***

As it turned out, Crowley was wrong. There was more the North could do - quietly, politely, and in a civilised fashion.

On Monday, every factory in the region announced a strike. The unions said that any work which could cause so much damage that the sea turned warm had to be doing even _more _damage to the people who had to work there. Overnight, work ground to halt in everything from packing crisps into packets to the rather more dangerous and mysterious work of ICI. Until the owners could guarantee safe working conditions, they said, no-one was coming back to work.

On Tuesday, the MP for Redcar spoke to the BBC, outright accusing the French of sneaking into British waters and stealing their fish. Clearly, she insisted, this was yet another case of Europe forcing laws on Britain while not ensuring that such agreements were also kept to elsewhere.

Newspapers seized on the idea gleefully. The Daily Mail was delighted to be able to announce its views on _"fish-stealing frogs"_. The Express lamented the way that no one _listened _to the Empire anymore, and demanded to know why the Prime Minister wasn't putting forth Britain's interests more forcefully.

Despite indignant protests from France, no-one really doubted that the accusations were true. After all, someone had to be taking more than was allowed in their quota. Otherwise, where were the fish?

Wednesday was the day of Prime Minister's Questiontime, the traditional weekly occasion in Britain when Members of the Opposition were actually given _permission _to call the Prime Minister names. After a week like the last, they were practically salivating with anticipation.

It started with the fish.

"Would the Prime Minister be able to tell the House whether he knows how much exactly it costs today to buy a traditionally British portion fish and chips?" the Tory leader demanded.

The Prime Minister dithered, looking at his Cabinet in the hope of aid. It was not forthcoming. "While I do understand the cost of fish is currently rising, unfortunately it is the natural results of cod shortages." he said uncomfortably. "Obviously, it makes no one very happy, however there are substitutes available from fish farms..."

A question unanswered was always a sign of blood in the water (metaphorically speaking). The Tory leader pressed on. "So, you don't know?" he asked, glancing around the House of Commons, and raising his arms slightly as though to demonstrate the uselessness of this reply. "The _Prime Minister of Britain _cannot even give an estimate as to the price of a meal _highly _prized in British culture? I must ask the House, is this the same man who presses so hard for school lessons that emphasise "Britishness". Perhaps the Prime Minister should be taking some himself, for he is clearly out of touch with the lifeblood of this proud nation. We must ask ourselves, when exactly he is planning to stop messing about and actually _defend _this Britishness he speaks so highly of, and demand that the French stop taking our fish!"

Always quick to react to react to any sign of weakness, the opposition benches went wild. The Speaker frowned at the boos and hisses and asked twice for order before things could continue.

The next few questions were harmless sorts, asked by the more minor members of both parties. Relatively non-controversial questions about apprenticeships and whether a hospital was to be kept open, neither drew much of a response from the listening MPs. The Prime Minister almost allowed himself to relax a little. Almost.

"Mr Speaker, would the Prime Minister like to tell this House when he plans on telling the North of this country to stop complaining, and get back to work?" Back to the Tory leader, and he was confident of himself now. He stood casually, leaning on his podium, mouth so close to his microphone that it almost looked as though he was about to lick it. "The House would like to know whether the Prime Minister intends the policy of this country to be that we ignore a problem until it goes away, or whether he actually ever intends getting up, and actually _doing _something about it."

It would have been better if the Prime Minister had been able to prevent himself getting defensive, but he could already picture tomorrow's headlines, could see how the papers would treat a leader who couldn't name the exact price of fish. Flushing, he began to bluster a little. "Well, _obviously_, while we recognise the workers right to strike, I would urge them to try to come with a compromise with their employer as soon as is possible."

Most of the Labour MPs cheered - more out of a desperate attempt to build their leader's morale than anything. Those whose constituencies were in the more Northern areas looked at each other a little anxiously. Such comments might endear Labour to the Southern side of the country, but it did nothing to help _them_.

Indeed, the very next question the leader of the Lib Dems stood up, ready for battle. "Is the Prime Minister seriously suggesting," he began, "...that workers in this country be encouraged to go back to a work in jobs which they seriously believe are killing them?"

"There has been absolutely no link shown between the jobs in question, and shorter life expectancy." The reply was a sharp one. "Such suggestions are merely fear-mongering by the media, and not based in fact."

But his Lib Dem opponent was ready for that. "Only a few months ago, this House was hearing that it was indeed proven that people in the North East did indeed have the lowest life expectancy in the country. Is the Prime Minister seriously suggesting that these figures have nothing to do with their primary means of employment?" he demanded. "Also," he added, before giving any chance to reply, "there _is _the small matter of the sea heating by several degrees."

"I have a committee currently dedicated to researching the cause of that event, but I am assured that as yet there is no sign that the heating is either anything to do with the factories, or anything harmful to humans..." the Prime Minister began, and was quickly drowned out by jeering. He waited until the Speaker had called for order once more before continuing. “I would urge those who are trying to claim a connection to think hard about what results their false claims might have before going any further."

It was an answer which seemed to please nobody, and he winced seeing the grimaces on the faces of his own cabinet members. A Labour MP's name was called out, and he breathed out in mild relief. At least the next question should be an easy one.

It seemed that even that belief was too optimistic. The member for Stockton North stood up, glancing anxiously towards the party Whips. "Ah, I have received enquiries from my constituents concerning the friction match," he began. "Specifically, as they invented it, they want to know if they could perhaps see a small percentage of the profit from each box sold. Please."

As the Opposition benches dissolved into laughter, the Prime Minister tried to look stoic, and wondered just how long it was before he could manage to retire without losing too much face.


	2. Chapter 2

On Thursday morning, the news reported that Northern factory workers were planning a protest march to the South in an attempt to make the country recognise their ordeal. It reported that fishermen were applying to the government for compensation for money lost due to the lack of fish. It also reported that the French Prime Minister was apparently _very upset _by certain accusations coming from Britain, and in the interests of their continued good relationship, would like those remarks to be withdrawn at once.

So far, no-one had withdrawn anything.

Then there was a report from outside Downing Street questioning just how long the current crisis could continue, and whether the Prime Minister needed to worry about being ousted by his own party. Votes of no confidence were mentioned, and anonymous Labour MPs were quoted as being "extremely concerned about whether their current leader can tackle the North".

Aziraphale, watching on the small colour television provided by the bed and breakfast, was also concerned.

"If they carry on like this, it won't just be a Civil War they start," he said worriedly.

"Nnngh," Crowley replied unhelpfully, and pulled a pillow over his head.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, and tsked. "Really, my dear, I did think you might be up by now. We have got a war to prevent after all."

"It's not yet nine o clock." Crowley complained from under the pillow. "And I haven't slept all night. You snore."

"Dear, it isn't possible for me to snore. For _either _of us to snore. We don't breathe, remember?" Aziraphale reasoned placidly.

"I know. I think you're doing it on purpose," Crowley accused. "Some kind of weird angelic revenge."

"I hardly think I would be focusing on such a thing when I have a potential war to focus on," Aziraphale said primly. "And neither should you be. There are more important things than sleep to think about."

Crowley's face appeared from under the pillow, bad-tempered and flushed with sleep. "You know it would be a lot less trouble to just let them get on with it," he complained. "Quick war, let them get the whole Empire thing out of their system again, and they'll wear themselves out enough to behave themselves for the next fifty years or so. They're going to end up having a war at some point anyway, so it might as well be now."

Aziraphale sighed. "And do you really fancy going back to London if they lose?"

"Don't be bloody stupid. They're the British Empire. They always win. More or less," Crowley retorted. "If only because they're too small and inconveniently placed for anyone to bother putting up the effort for a proper invasion." He sat up in bed, glancing over towards the television. "You watch. Someone will mention Blitz spirit in a moment."

On cue, the report switched to an interview with a fish and chip shop owner. "Well, it's hard of course, coping without any fish," he told the camera solemnly. "But the community's rallied around, and we've been doing the best we can, frying what we can get hold of. We've been trying chicken, as some people thought it tasted like some sorts of fish, and the pet shop donated some goldfish to keep us going. It's been good, like, everyone pulling together - having a bit of Blitz spirit around the place."

"See?" Crowley was triumphant. "Wonderfully predictable they are. The slightest bit of adversity, and it's Blitz spirit all the way."

Aziraphale pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Yes, well, if we don't calm things down, they'll be showing Blitz spirit in an actual Blitz again."

That was enough to make Crowley grimace. He hadn't thought of that and the memories were something completely different from what people invoked when they bandied around the term. "I remember that. Everyone being dragged out of bed in the freezing cold in the middle of the night to go stand in an air raid shelter."

Noticing his dislike of the memory, Aziraphale took the advantage. "Right. So, if you want any uninterrupted sleep over the next five years or so, perhaps it would be a good idea to get up?" he suggested patiently. "Come on now. I'll make us both a nice cup of tea to wake up with while you get up, there's a good chap."

It was one of the little amenities the bed and breakfast supplied to make things seem more homely - a tray with a kettle, and a small collection of teabags, disposable coffee sachets, sugar sachets and little cartons of UHT milk. Aziraphale highly approved, even if they did seem to have forgotten the teapot, milk-jug and sugar bowl that were needed for a _proper _civilized cup of tea. Still, one did what one could with what one had.

The kettle was already boiling before he realised something was missing. Several somethings in fact. "Crowley?"

"Mm?" Having been forced out of bed, Crowley had created his clothes for the day and was now taking ownership of the remote control, flicking through the television channels quickly.

"Where are the tea and coffee things?"

"Oh, uh..." Crowley looked a little sheepish. "In the drawer next to the beds."

Aziraphale opened it, and stared, slightly bemused, at the collection of sachets heaped in there. "Is there a reason we're hiding these?"

"They replace them every day if they think you've used them." Seeing Aziraphale's expression, Crowley became a little defensive. "Look, it's theft and lying. Those are perfectly demonic things to do."

Aziraphale looked at the sachets for a moment, then silently took out two teabags and a milk carton, and closed the door. He thought it best not to mention that since the Apocalypse these little acts of "being demonic" seemed to grow smaller and more symbolic every day, just in case Crowley got in the mood to prove him wrong. From instigator of Original Sin to pilferer of refreshments, Crowley’s demonic attitude had taken a knock here or there through the millennia.

Frenzied channel-flicking had resulted in Crowley managing to find an episode of Jerry Springer. Satisfied, and ignoring the way Aziraphale winced at the sound of the two women on-screen screaming at each other, he set the remote back down and turned to look at the angel. "So," he asked, "what exactly did you have in mind?"

Aziraphale smiled, and sat back down on the bed, handing over a freshly brewed mug of tea. "Well," he said. "I thought it might be a good idea to head down to the beach..."

***

"All I'm saying is, I don't see why she gets to be the one in control," Pollution complained. "If anyone is going to lead us, it should be HIM."

"Yes, well, HE doesn't lead," Famine said firmly. "HE barely works with us at all really. HE just happens to be there when we have to work, most of the time. But I’m not sure how much that counts as technically he is everywhere."

“I’ve often wondered how that works,” Pollution replied. “But I suppose it’s a case of being more of everywhere _here_, and less everywhere _there_. I suppose it’s that wave and particle thing again.”

Famine looked at him. “Seriously, if you talk about that blasted cat again, I’ll…well, everything was a lot simpler before it became all quantum.”

The pair of them wandered down the shoreline together, a trail of litter following in their wake.

"Why are we even _here _really? I mean I know the sea warming up has nothing to do with me, regardless of what the humans are thinking. And pardon me for saying so, but I don't see anyone starving to death for lack of fish, for all they're complaining a lot about it. They're versatile things, humans. If you tell them they can't have fish and chips, they go get a pizza instead. Or a vindaloo. Or a Chinese. Nothing particularly British but that’s the way it goes."

"Things will get better once the war starts," Famine reassured. "One of the plus-points about this place being an island. Once they annoy any neighbours they've got trading food with them, it soon starts running out. And you know some of the damage those weapons they have now can do. I'm sure you'll find plenty to keep you busy."

It wasn't enough to satisfy Pollution. "But why are we here, _now_?" he persisted. "I don't call you guys if I spill enough oil to kill off an entire population's food supply and cause a diplomatic incident. You don't call _her _if you think some nation's got hungry and desperate enough to attack the one next door. You just... know to turn up when you're needed. Why is she calling us _before _we're needed?"

Famine considered it carefully for a few minutes. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe she just wanted an audience?"

"An audience?" Pollution stared a little.

"Well, you know. Hardly good for the ego, being defeated by a little girl, is it? They do call it the theatre of war after all and maybe there is a little truth to that human metaphor. Maybe she just wants someone to pat her on the back a bit and say 'Jolly good war, well done you" - that kind of thing."

Pollution sighed. "If we said that now, do you think she would stop?"

The other personification eyed him curiously. "Would you want her to?"

"Not exactly but... I mean, well, maybe," Pollution admitted reluctantly. "Look, I've got my own projects out there which I was spending time on. There's some I was doing fantastically on - I had red kites nearly to extinction! But you know what humans are. You take your eyes off them for five minutes to work on something else, and they slap a protection order on the blasted things and work out how to get them to breed. I don't have _time _to waste on being here just because she wants attention!"

"I too have things which might be considered a better use of my time, there’s been a few natural disasters that are very promising," Famine agreed. He looked straight at Pollution, meeting the pale eyes. "Will you tell her?"

Pollution sagged. "I was hoping you would," he said pleadingly. "You're more senior than me after all. "

"Ah, no." Famine shook his head. "Sorry my friend, but that's not how it works. You're old enough to do these things yourself."

The thought made Pollution wince. "She wouldn't take it well, would she? She'd argue."

"Fighting is something she's had rather a lot of practice at," Famine agreed. “Confrontation is practically her middle name even if it has too many syllables.”

There was a pause as the two personifications contemplated the scene that would undoubtedly result from standing up to War.

"Maybe," Pollution said slowly, "I could let my personal projects wait just a _little _longer." He glanced sideways at Famine. "See if she gets it out of her system, you know."

"It'd take a few more months before even the Red Cross could make changes that would cause _real _issues with any of my work," Famine nodded. "People will starve to death a little more slowly but... I can afford a little more time."

"We wait then?"

Famine looked out over the ocean. The sun glinted on waves that were now empty of any life. A little further out, fishing boats lowered their nets with desperate optimism, hoping to come up with something, however paltry.

"Yes," he agreed. "We wait."

***

Elsewhere, further along the coastline, Crowley was staring into the same ocean. It looked, he thought, cold and grey and wet. And, this being where it was, probably radioactive as well.

"So," he said heavily, "you want us to turn into fish."

"It seems the best idea, don't you think?" Aziraphale agreed cheerfully. "To get a proper view of what's really going on down there."

Crowley stared into the water and tried hard to think of something better. "You know, just because there aren't any _fish _in there doesn't mean there isn't anything else in there," he warned. "It's going to cause real questions if we both need new bodies because we get eaten by a seal or a dolphin or something."

"We'll be careful," Aziraphale reassured. "And I don't think you get dolphins in this area. If we go deep enough, seals shouldn't be an issue."

"You couldn't just ask Upstairs what the problem is?" Crowley asked wistfully. "That whole omniscient thing has to be good for _something_."

Aziraphale's smile vanished so quickly that he wished he had kept quiet for once. "No," he said quietly. "They're not - I think they're still sulking after... well, you know."

Crowley nodded. He _did _know. Adam might have done something to prevent either of them actually being dragged home and dealt with for their actions, but that didn't mean they were back on friendly terms with their employers. Hell, thusfar, was keeping up a kind of surly silence. Considering what Hell was capable of, Crowley far preferred it to any alternative.

"Looks like we're on our own on this one then," he said, surrendering if only to get the smile back on Aziraphale's face. It was one thing to tease the angel, but quite another to have him looking _miserable _like that. "Fish it is."

Aziraphale beamed so easily in response that Crowley half-wondered if he had been faking the unhappy look. "I thought angel-fish might be appropriate."

There was such a thing as going too far. Crowley glared. "I _do _hope you're joking."

"Well, devil-fish in your case then," Aziraphale allowed.

Crowley looked thoughtful. Faint memories of programmes seen long ago on the Discovery Channel stirred. "Yeah, yeah... I think I can go with that."

Aziraphale relaxed. It was good to have some things that didn't have to be an argument. "There we go then. Devil fish it is."

"I mean, there's certainly not going to be any problems with seals or dolphins with one of those."

"I shouldn't expect there will be, no." Aziraphale agreed. He waded into the water a few steps, letting the waves wash around his ankles.

"Need to go further out though. Can't go changing into one of those _here _or I'd get beached, I expect."

"I don't think they really have _that _much of a problem with it," Aziraphale said doubtfully. "Still, I suppose you can go a bit further out if you're worried."

Crowley stared out to sea, trying to judge depth. "I thought out just past those fishing boats should do it."

"What?" Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder, realising that their mental images didn't seem to be meeting up. "Crowley, what exactly do you think it is that you're turning into here?"

"Devil fish. Saw them on television." Crowley waved his arms, as though trying to indicate something of great size. "Great big whale things they are. Vicious bastards, too."

"Ah." Now the problem became clear. "I think you might have misunderstood me. There is in fact more than one type of devil fish."

This wasn't news that seemed to dissuade Crowley at all. "So I'll go for the whale kind," he said decisively. "Bound to get things done faster, being a massive great whale."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said gently. "Quite apart from the fact that I think the humans might _notice _if a grey whale suddenly popped up in the middle of the North Sea without warning, the type of whale you're thinking of is only called a devil fish when it is a female with young to protect. Somehow I believe you are lacking in certain qualities of motherhood. Being female for one, having offspring and any form of maternal instinct another."

Crowley's face fell. "Oh."

Aziraphale studied him. "Did you ever actually _read _that Encyclopedia of Animals I got you for Christmas a few years ago? I'm sure it detailed information like this."

The demon's expression took on the studied look of guilt of someone who had torn the paper off and then never looked at it again. "I... yes," he said defensively.

Aziraphale tsked disbelievingly. Angels were _good _at reading guilty expressions. "You were _meant _to use it to look for information that might help us with Dog," he scolded. "I suppose you don't even know where it is. I don't know why I bother, I really don't."

"Of course I know where it is," Crowley protested, carefully neglecting to mention that that location currently was propping open a door in his flat. "It's come in very useful. I just don't remember that part." Realising that he had perhaps better move the conversation on quickly before Aziraphale asked any more questions - mistreatment of books was one of the few things that seemed to make angelic patience vanish away to nothing - he said hastily, "so, what _are _these devil fish then?"

"They're a type of stingfish. It's a little hard to describe. Here..." Aziraphale frowned at him for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. Crowley found himself abruptly floundering about in the shallow water.

"Hey! _Angel_!"

"Just thought I would help," Aziraphale said pleasantly, and joined him a moment later as a small yellow angel fish.

"I didn't _ask _you to help." Crowley swam in circles, trying to get a good look at his new body. It appeared to be spiky, weirdly ugly, and covered in stripes. "I look like something a whelk spit up," he said disbelievingly. " Or like someone with a terminal cold sneezed out the contents of their sinuses. I don't think there even _are _fish that look like this."

"You'd be amazed by the variety of God's creatures on this earth, dear," Aziraphale said, with perhaps just a touch of smugness. "And I _did _suggest angel fish first, if you'll recall."

"Are these stripes the closest you could get to tartan for a fish?" Crowley flapped a fin accusingly.

"You look perfectly lovely, dear," Aziraphale said firmly. Crowley did not, somehow, feel reassured. "Come along now. We need to find what's going on."

They swam in silence for a while - or at least Aziraphale did. Crowley discovered that his front fins were apparently designed to scuttle rather than swim, and managed to get up quite a good speed over the sand.

"Managed to get the humans to write a song about something like this once," he mused after a while.

Aziraphale winced. "Don't remind me. I had to unplug the radio after the first two weeks of it."

Crowley wriggled his spines in happy memory. "You weren't the only one. You'd be amazed how many humans tarnished their souls by wishing bad things on the singers, or shouting at their kids to turn it off after the hundredth play. Wonderful example of a bad job well done and spread all over the world."

"Life was much easier when you were tempting humans into adultery, rather than into making annoying songs," Aziraphale said glumly.

"Far less effective though." Crowley glanced sideways at him (something that fish eyes were well designed for) and started humming quietly under his breath. Two miles swum to _"Help! I'm a fish!" _seemed quite adequate revenge for being stuck in a stripy fish body.

***

"Are we nearly _there _yet?"

The catfish sighed. "I did warn you that you'd wished us rather a long way away."

"I'm hungry."

"So I gathered the first five times you complained of it." He eyed the dogfish hopefully. "Don't fancy dying of starvation any time soon, do you? It could make this all a lot quicker."

"No." The dogfish gave an annoyed flick of his tail. "Though I'm sure you've got enough fins that you could spare just one to help a fellow out for a snack."

"Thank you, but I'm not so keen on the idea of swimming in circles for the rest of my life."

"I don't see why you're so against it. I think that's what we're doing anyway," the dogfish retorted. "I'm sure we've passed that piece of waterweed before."

"Well, perhaps if you'd bothered to wish one of us a sense of direction, rather than _wasting _wishes..." the catfish began angrily, then broke off. "Wait. I heard something."

For once the dogfish didn't argue, but froze in place, senses straining to catch any vibrations through the water. It was always wise to be careful around strange noises in the ocean, in case they were made by something that wanted to eat you.

This didn't sound like anything predatory though.

"I don't understand it. Even if the warm water had managed to kill off all the sealife, I would expect more bodies. It shouldn't just be _empty_," a voice complained, sounding frustrated.

"Maybe it was the French after all."

"They said they hadn't!"

"Yes, well, they're human. They would say that. You can't trust the buggers further than you can throw them. You should _know _that by now, angel."

"They shouldn't be able to empty the entire sea though. That's just odd whichever way you look at it."

The catfish and dogfish glanced at each other, and then stared with some fascination as a small yellow angel fish followed by a spiky waddling... thing came up over the sand dune sea bottom.

The angel fish and spiky thing stopped and stared back.

"Catfish," the angel fish said slowly as it vaned its wings and came to a standstill. "How very interesting. I could have sworn they were only freshwa-"

He didn't get to finish the sentence. It had been a long time since the dogfish's last meal, and now he had finally found food he wasn't going to have a conversation with it, or wonder where it had come from. He was going to _eat _it - and that was precisely what he did, swallowing Aziraphale down in one gulp.

There was a moment of shocked silence before the shouting started.

"For crying out loud, can't you see _anything _that might be useful to us without _eating _it?" the catfish snapped. "The first other fish we've seen in days, and you swallow it whole!"

"Never mind useful, that was my _angel_!" Crowley found, much to his surprise, that this fish-body seemed to want to bristle its spines when he was angry. He advanced on the startled dogfish threateningly. "I suggest you spit him out."

"I _can't _spit him out, I've swallowed him!" The dogfish backed off hastily, eying the spines with some concern. "Look, I'm very sorry, but it's a fish-eat-fish world, and I was hungry."

Crowley blessed furiously. "Do you _know _how much trouble he'll have to go to in order to get a new body?" he demanded. "And that's if his employers don't just decide he can be put to better use Up There."

"Uh... no?" The dogfish looked at the catfish, as though for help.

He got none. The catfish simply shrugged. "Don't look at me, mate. From my point of view, if he tears you limb from limb I get home a bit faster."

"That's a sense of apathy and self-interest that usually I would happily encourage, but on this occasion I would prefer to have Aziraphale back," Crowley's voice was a hiss, and the dogfish noted with some concern that his eyes seemed to have actually turned red and glowed. "I would suggest you work out how to throw him back up."

"Actually, I'm quite all right." A small polite voice disturbed the argument. "I don't think fish digestive juices actually have any effect on us."

"Aziraphale!" Crowley was a little relieved, but no less annoyed. He levelled his spines at the dogfish. "Get him out of there."

"I keep trying to tell you, I don't know how!" the dogfish protested.

"Much as letting you kill him might save me some hard swimming to get home, I feel I should probably point out that if your friend really is indigestible, he should come out the natural way in a few days time," the catfish commented. "It may not be pleasant, but I should think he'll be fine."

"Nice though it is to hear you're so concerned, Crowley, you need to calm down, dear," Aziraphale instructed from inside the dogfish's stomach. "I can get out of here when I'm ready, and I think I've located our problem. If you aren't careful with those spines, you'll have someone's eye out."

"I don't see any problem with that," Crowley muttered, but his spines settled back against his body much to the dogfish's relief.

"I haven't seen one of these in centuries," Aziraphale's voice continued. "Dear, dear, no wonder we were having issues."

"One of what?" Crowley demanded.

"A wishing ring - I thought the last of these was still over in Arabia somewhere. Of course, when things start getting wished different to the grand design it all starts to go wrong."

Crowley glared at the dogfish. "You _ate _a wishing ring?"

"It looked shiny," the dogfish said uncomfortably. "I didn't think much of it at the time."

"I tried to stop him," the catfish offered. "But really, have you ever _tried _to get a dogfish to do something it doesn't want to? They're not the brightest of fish."

"Fine, fine, you're both idiots - I get the idea," Crowley waved the excuses off with a fin. "Aziraphale, hurry up and wish yourself out here so we can wish things back to normal and go home."

"I'm not sure that would be right," Aziraphale sounded hesitant for the first time. "It is direct action after all, and I'm only really meant to act through a human agent. Otherwise, it's not really very ineffable."

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment. "Angel, do you want to stop this war or not?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale admitted. "But there's right ways and wrong ways of doing things."

"Aziraphale, your choices right now are wishing things back to normal which would take all of five minutes, or trying to find a human to wish it back for you who will inevitably bugger it all up even worse because there isn't a human born yet who can look at a wishing ring and not suddenly see himself drowning in wealth or impossibly handsome or something," Crowley snapped.

"You don't know that," Aziraphale protested. "They might _choose _to make things right!"

"And they might choose to use all three wishes to create the world's first purple elephant or something. Aziraphale, I'm not sure how you haven't worked it out by now but humans are _stupid_!"

There was silence for a moment as Aziraphale considered this. "We could always try Them..." he suggested tentatively after a moment.

"Do you really think Adam would _need _a wishing ring to get things set straight? He could with a blink if he wanted to, but do you really want him mucking with that power? It might get him into the habit of interfering and if that happens, both your side and mine will take steps and it’ll be all that serried ranks of hosts business again and this time, there won’t be loopholes. Do you want that?"

"Well, no," Aziraphale admitted. "But there's the other three?"

"They're eleven year old children, angel. Saving the world doesn't suddenly mean they're _responsible_."

"Excuse me?" the dogfish said tentatively. "Is there any chance you two could continue this conversation outside of my stomach? You're starting to give me indigestion."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry if eating me upset you." With Aziraphale sometimes it was difficult to tell whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. Nevertheless, a moment later he appeared a few inches away, still in angelfish form, clutching the ring in his mouth.

"One wish gone," he said looking a little worried. "I don't _think _that one can backfire though. You know how they have a tendency to."

"Not if you actually have a brain," Crowley said sharply. "But as you've started wishing, you might as well finish the job. The sooner it's over with, the sooner we can leave."

"Speaking of leaving," the catfish said. "Is there any chance you could see your way to wishing us back home? Or wishing me home at least. _He _was the one who got us here after all. I'm just an innocent spectator in all this."

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. "There are only two wishes left, and I shouldn't really even use those..."

"What happened to not walking by on the other side, angel?" Crowley demanded. "Here, you take two wishes, I take three, that should be enough, shouldn't it?"

"You're tempting me again," Aziraphale protested. "And I'm definitely sure I shouldn't be letting you wish on it. You're a demon. You could wish for all kinds of twisted desires."

It should not have been possible for a fish - even a devilfish - to leer the way that Crowley did in response to that. "Do you really think I have to _wish _for twisted desires?"

Aziraphale's yellow hue seemed to glow a little brighter for a moment. "The point is that it would be irresponsible of me to hand over this kind of power to a demon."

"What are you afraid I'd wish for?" Crowley demanded. "It's hardly as though I'd wish for something like Hell winning after all we've done to stop that. Live a little for once, take a risk. I just want to get back to London, and out of this form. These spines _itch_."

"Fish like you come from _London_?" the dogfish asked with some surprise. The catfish and dogfish had been looking from one to the other as the argument went on, growing increasingly confused.

"We're not fish, we're-" Crowley started, and broke off. "Oh, there's no use explaining it. You've only got a memory ten seconds long, you'll have forgotten before I've even got to the end of the explanation."

"I think you'll find that's goldfish, Crowley," Aziraphale said mildly. He turned to their two observers. "Let's just say we're both more than what we seem."

"I think we'd gathered that," the catfish commented. "Look, forgive me if I'm suggesting something terribly obvious, but if you're so worried about what your friend their would wish, why don't you just save your last wish until he's had his three wishes? Then you can undo anything he's wished that would break things too much."

Aziraphale hesitated. "That would work?"

The catfish wiggled his tail authoritatively. "Trust me, I'm a catfish. There's _no-one_ who knows how wishing rings work better than us."

"I'm up for it," Crowley offered. "Like I said, I just want to get out of here."

"Fine, fine," Aziraphale conceded with a sigh. "Just for the sake of the innocents affected then. Let me get my second wish over with first, and then I'll pass it to you."

He focused for a moment, gripping the ring in his mouth once more. The sea temperature dropped several degrees. Everyone shivered.

"Did you have to wish for that one first?" the dogfish complained.

"Well, dear bo- dear fish, it would hardly be any use if I wished the other fish back and they all died because the water was too warm, would it?" Aziraphale asked. He rolled the ring over the sand to Crowley, giving him a warning glare. "Be careful."

"Fine, fine, I'll resist the urge to have us surrounded by naked virgins." Crowley promised sourly. "Not that it would be much use anyway down here unless they had scuba diving equipment on. You worry too much, angel."

He hooked the ring easily onto a spine, and focused for a moment. The sea around them was suddenly a lot more crowded, fish appearing from nowhere - most of them looking very surprised. "There, you see? Nothing to it."

"Now wish us back please?" the catfish asked hopefully.

Another moment of deep concentration, and both catfish and dogfish vanished away. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

"There, you see? All fixed, and not even one naked virgin involved."

"You've got one more wish," Aziraphale said flatly.

"Yes," Crowley's tone turned thoughtful. "I have, haven't I?"

He jiggled the spine a little, feeling the ring rattle on it, and wondered for a moment just how powerful wishing rings were anyway? It would be so simple, so _easy _just to wish to be unFallen. Just to wish for a pardon, and make it as though there had never been that moment of hesitation, of letting himself get led astray by bad company...

No. No, because that choice would mean being someone else, wearing a different face, performing a different job to the one he had been used to for so long. No, because if he hadn't fallen, he wouldn't be _Crowley_.

Besides, Heaven wouldn't have any need for two agents on earth. Wish himself back to angelic form, and someone would have to go home.

He jiggled the ring a moment longer, then rolled it back over the sand to Aziraphale. The angelfish caught it, and stared at Crowley suspiciously. "Well? What was your third wish?"

"Oh, nothing," Crowley lied airily. "It's not as though I needed more than two."

"Right, right. Nothing to put right then is there?" Aziraphale asked, looking down at the ring.

"No," Crowley agreed. "So you could wish for anything _you _want." His voice dropped to a low murmur. "World peace, or an end to famine, or a lifetime supply of creamcakes, or a first edition of anything, anything at all..."

Aziraphale looked up sharply. "You're tempting again."

"Sorry," Crowley cleared his throat. "Force of habit. Good thwarting action though. Nice reflexes."

He watched as Aziraphale gripped the ring in his mouth tightly, and pressed it firmly into the loose sand. A few whisks of his tail and it was covered over, lost from view.

"So, what did you wish for?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, you know." Aziraphale wiggled his tail in a passable attempt at a shrug. "As you said, you only really need two wishes."

"Of course," Crowley agreed, not believing a word of it. Aziraphale couldn’t lie for toffee or any other type of sweet. "No need to use the third if you don't have to."

"Come on then," Aziraphale turned back towards the beach quickly, before Crowley could ask any more. "This water really _is _chilly now."

Side by side, to the tune of _"Help, I'm a fish!" _the angel and devil swam back to Redcar.

***

"They're back." War stared into the water in disbelief. It teemed with life - indeed with more life than the North Sea was quite used to.

"That's humans for you," Pollution said more cheerfully than was perhaps appropriate. "I told you - turn your back on them for a moment and they're bringing species back from the brink of extinction. Constant job keeping up with them."

"You could get rid of them." She turned, looking from Pollution to Famine with desperate hope. "You - both of you! A breeding crisis among the fish, an oil spill to wipe them out again - it doesn't have to end here!"

The two looked at each other awkwardly. "Well, you see there's other work to be getting on with," Famine started uncomfortably.

"Rainforests to cut down, that kind of thing," Pollution agreed quickly. “I’ve had this wonderful project involving heavy metals…I really should check on it…”

"I've got a new fast food chain to launch over in America, and while it's been very nice being here for a little holiday, I really must be off..." Seeing that War was about to try and argue, Famine turned quickly and hurried away.

A few minutes later, he heard footsteps behind him. "This fast food chain?" Pollution asked, a little breathlessly. "Would it happen to have boxes and wrappings made of non-recyclable materials?"

Famine looked at his younger colleague, a slow smile beginning to blossom. "It could have," he agreed. "I don't see any reason why it shouldn't."

After all, while neither of them enjoyed playing second fiddle to other personifications, a partnership was quite a different affair.

***

"And while we of course wish to believe our French colleagues in this matter, the fact remains that our fish are still missing, and should they not be returned - or at least reparations given for their theft - then sanctions will almost certainly have-" the Prime Minister broke off from his speech as an aide scurried forward to whisper frantically in his ear.

A moment later, he reached to switch his microphone off. A murmured discussion ensued with several of his Cabinet members. The Opposition watched curiously. This was certainly an unusual approach to take.

It was a good five minutes before the microphone was switched back on, and gave the MPs on the benches opposite a beaming smile made mostly of pure relief.

"I am glad to inform my honourable colleagues that it would appear that the North Sea is once again brimming with cod. Also with dolphins, skate, er... ray, whitefish, goldfish... ah, quite a lot of fish in fact. That being the case, it would appear that no sanctions are necessary, and we apologise to our friends in France for any accusations that might have been made." He glanced at his aide, who gave a quick nod. "Also, it would appear that the North Sea is once again at normal temperature, and water testing has confirmed that it is as clean as it has ever been - uh, possibly cleaner considering the amount of fish that appear to be enjoying it. I can therefore reassure our friends in the North that it would seem whatever has been occurring over the past few days, it does not seem to be a side-effect of pollution, and they should be safe to return to work whenever they wish."

There was a cheer from the Labour benches, if a slightly confused one. The Prime Minister relaxed. At least until the next crisis or Prime Minister's Questiontime (whichever came first), his job was safe.

***

Aziraphale and Crowley leaned against the seal wall and watched the fishermen hard at work again, pulling struggling nets of fish into their boats. In the distance, the ICI chimneys were once more belching smoke, a sign that the factory workers strike had ended.

"You did realise, didn't you," Aziraphale said carefully, "that goldfish aren't actually native to the North Sea?"

Crowley feigned a look of innocence. "No?"

"And for that matter I'm not even sure they like saltwater at all. And as for dolphins... I'm almost sure they haven't been seen here before. And..." he stopped, squinting into the distance where a spout of water could be seen, "is that a whale over there?"

Crowley shrugged. "Guess I should have read that encyclopaedia a bit more carefully?" he offered. "Still, the humans seem to like it." He nodded to a group that had bunched together on the beach, excitably taking photos and notes. He smirked a little wondering how long it would be before they found out about the megalodon. He imagined that a 60ft prehistoric and supposedly extinct shark would probably make its presence felt soon enough. It wasn’t his fault he could only remember the interesting things from the animal encyclopedia.

After all, as long as there was a bookshop in the area, it was almost certain that Aziraphale would find them reason to return at some point. He might as well make sure there was enough encouragement for tourism in the area to make it bearable next time.

***

"They just don't understand the overall _vision_," War said, frustrated. "I can set something up for them, and they just stand there as if they don't know what to do with it at all."

Death nodded politely. THAT MUST BE VERY TRYING, he offered.

"It was different when Pestilence was around, of course. I miss Pestilence. _He _understood about working together. Give him a battleground of soldiers and he'd have their feet turning green and falling off in no time."

HE CERTAINLY LOVED HIS WORK, Death agreed.

The pair stood together, looking out to sea. The sky was blue, and the air was full of shouts from the fishermen, cries from the gulls up above, and absolutely no sounds of anyone getting shot and killed. Really, War thought, it was most dissatisfactory.

Still, she wasn't _quite _alone.

"You know, there's been some fuss over in Africa. Just a scuffle yet, but it could turn out to be more." She looked up, giving her old, sharp smile. "At least, it could if I'm there. Do you want to come?"

Death smiled back, or at least gave as much of a smile as a skull could manage. I WILL BE THERE, OF COURSE, he agreed. YOU KNOW I ALWAYS AM.

And War laughed, confident in the knowledge that she had at least one partner who would be there no matter what jobs he had to do elsewhere. No matter that this one little war had failed. There would be other wars.

As long as humans around, there always were.

***

In Hell, administrators were surprised and vexed to see that they had made a note to give a certain demon a commendation "because he's a jolly good chap, always gets his work done in good order" and a directive from the highest authority to stay on earth for at least a few more millennia, and had never actually got around to actioning it until now. The turn around of the demon’s standing considering his frontline part in the debacle of the Thing No-One Was Talking About was wildly considered in Hell's Administration Department as nothing short of ‘miraculous’, but as management frequently said one thing and then actioned something else the request was processed post-haste.

In Heaven, administrators discovered they had a similar memo concerning a certain angel, with an additional note that a computer with Windows Vista to assist him in his duties on earth might be a helpful gift. (Just because Crowley wanted the angel to stay around didn't mean he didn't also enjoy tormenting him. Besides, he could think of few better ways to ensure that Aziraphale would need to call on him for help at some point).

With a synchronicity that proved that the laws of Administration were at least as much natural forces as gravity or entropy, both actions were duly carried out under Jobsworth’s Law, which meant that initiative was singularly lacking in its presence. No one asked any questions, they just rubberstamped it and moved on to the next task.

And if a certain angel and demon looked at each other and started wondering the next time they met, then that was just an unexpected and somewhat happy side effect.

***

Somewhere, in the middle of the ocean, a catfish and a dogfish looked around carefully.

"I don't remember those coral," the catfish said after a few moments.

"Those turtles are new," the dogfish agreed. He hesitated for a moment. "You know, did either of us actually get around to telling him where home was?"

"I don't think we did," the catfish admitted slowly. "We got a little distracted. They were such strange fish."

"Very strange fish. I can't think what kind of sea they have in London to produce fish like that," the dogfish said. He gave a testing wriggle and then set off, gliding through the waves. "Well, at least the water's warm this time. And there is food."

There was indeed food, as much as a catfish and a dogfish could wish for, and the pair feasted and lazed in the warm water, quite content to travel hopefully towards home, never quite arriving.

After all, Crowley had reasoned, _someone _should get to go to Barbados even if he couldn't.


End file.
